Road Less Traveled
by Dameon
Summary: One joined for salvation, one for stability, and the last for escape. FEATURING: Piotr/Colossus, John/Pyro, and Remy/Gambit and how they were recruited into the Acolytes.
1. Chapter 1: Salvation

_**Author's Note**_: So this is what I do when I get writer's block for some scripts I'm writing. Absolutely useless, yet absolutely fun, I'm posting it solely for my own joy. I have a million ideas on how to expand on this, and very little time. So I can't promise any thing, and won't say I'll update more on this. But enjoy!

So this is a random collection of stories and pieces (maybe connected, possibly not) about the Acolytes and other minor characters from X-Men: Evolution. Mostly concentrating on the characters of Colossus, Pyro, Gambit, Berzerker, Multiple Man, Sunspot, and the Morlocks. Welcome to Pandora's box of vignettes.

_**Summary**_: _"We can do no great things, only small things with great love." - Mother Teresa_ : The story of Piotr Rasputin's recruitment by Magneto.

_**Notes**_: -Any text in lines like this are meant to be spoken/written word in Russian.-

_**Disclaimer**_: I do not own any of the characters in this piece. They are the property of Marvel Studios.

**Chapter One: Salvation**

It was funny how the weather seemed to reflect the mood. Granted, if it had been sunny out, he would have felt cheated by the weather, as if the earth had no feeling for the emotions of its inhabitants. Yet the rain that pelted the shuttered windows, as accurate as the mood was, only increased his animosity towards the forecast. He felt bad for the rain. Rain was celebrated for bringing life and rejuvenating the land, yet the only thing that he could think about the droplets falling from the sky today was how the sun would be better for her.

Illyana Nikolievna Rasputin had always been a sickly child, prone to the cold winter's chill and the summer's heat. While she received what care she could, the fact was that the collective's doctor was ill-prepared for the frequency at which her attacks came. And as Illyana grew older, so did the severity of her sickness, whatever it was. Piotr was always one to worry, and in this case, he had been right to frown when his sister had complained of a weight in her chest. Pneumonia was not easy to over come, and even harder to bear was the wheezes that issued form his sister's mouth with each rise and fall of her chest.

With all of his powers, Piotr could do nothing. And that was why the rain generated animosity in him today. Piotr himself could do nothing, yet the only other alternative to medicine, warm weather, was not there to take the protector status that Piotr could not fulfil. Ever since he had saved his younger sister from becoming yet another victim to the vicious columbine of the collective tractor, Piotr had seen himself as a protector of not only his younger sister, but of the collective itself. When they had to work longer hours, it was Piotr who offered to take the harder, more laborious tasks. Instead of a horse, it was Piotr who pulled the plow. They had been promised another horse three months ago, but had yet to see the government provide. As a protector, Piotr knew he was doing good not only for his family, but the collective as well. Yet the problem with being a protector was that he could only protect others so far.

Protection would not provide Illyana with the medicines she needed, or the care that she required. No matter how hard he tried, how often he transformed, or how often he proved his strength and loyalty, the fact was that Piotr's powers would not create something from nothing. And that was the power that Piotr wished most for. Granted, he knew that power was dangerous in the hands of one person. He desperately clung to the idea that he would use the ability to create only for good purposes, but he knew that it would only be a matter of time before power sang the right chord to entice him down a path that would be harder to ascend than descend. And no matter how hard he wished or reasoned with himself, Piotr knew that there was even less of a chance of actually getting said power of creation.

So here he sat, doing the only thing he could do for Illyana – hope. For while Piotr was a protector, he couldn't help but hope that somewhere there was someone, another mutant, who was more powerful than he; someone who had the power to heal others, or create medicine, or even a famous, powerful doctor. He didn't believe in God, and he wasn't about to pin hope in mystics. But if he was able to exist with his powers, then perhaps there was – dare he say it? – a saviour of sorts for Illyana. Nothing could make Piotr happier than the idea that someday, whatever plagued his sister, would be eradicated from her small, beautiful form. Visions of a saved Illyana flashed through Piotr's broodiness. She would become a teenager unrivalled in beauty. Young men from other collectives would vie for her attention, yet Illyana would say no to each and every one, because she knew that something better was destined for her. Piotr knew this was certain, and was determined that Illyana would think so as well. If he had to, Piotr himself would keep off the young men! Yet Piotr was sure he wouldn't have to for long. Because word of his sister's beauty, intelligence, and strength of character would reach the far cities, and other countries, and like a fairy tale, a prince, or a man who treated his sister royally enough to be a prince, would come and sweep Illyana off her feet. Piotr would be satisfied, seeing his sister married, knowing that she would be alive to bear children and make a life for herself. Illyana would be free of the prison of her sick bed. And Piotr would rejoice.

Illyana enjoyed fairy tales such as that, and Piotr wasn't one to say no to his sister. That was why he drew picture after picture for her. Such as the one he was drawing now. It was a simple pencil drawing, but he knew it would please Illyana. She always dreamed of being a princess, like Anastasia, but only in drawing would Illyana have the riches any little girl dreamed of. Riches were not everything, as Piotr well knew, yet his little sister's desires were normal, and Piotr was not one to discourage his sister, especially when she smiled so. So here he sat, drawing his sister a picture of herself in the most fanciful dress he could imagine (which was not up to his sister's standards, he knew, but he was not of the right gender for such imaginings, he argued!). Drawing helped him ignore the headache he had from the day's work – he always seemed to be getting headaches after using his powers for so long, for so many days in a row. And of course, when his drawings influenced such white, wide smiles from his sister, he couldn't help continuing whatever had made her soul flash so brightly.

The evenings after dinner were often quiet, and while the light was good, Piotr sat by the window and drew, as his parents warmed themselves by the day's portion of lit firewood. Thus, as Piotr added a bow to his sister's hair, glancing at the object of his affection burrow unconsciously into the blankets as she slept, the knock at the door was a cause for everyone to freeze. The last time there had been late evening visitors to someone in the collective, the Vladimir Ivanov had not returned with the officials he had left with. Looking at each other, Piotr rose to answer the door, but was staved off by Nikolai holding out a halting hand. Watching carefully as Nikolai hunched over the door handle, Piotr didn't miss the deep breath his father took before he opened the door.

-Can I help you?- Nikolai had once had a lovely voice, or so the other women told Piotr's mother. Piotr didn't know if this was true, as he was not particularly inclined to listen so closely to another man's speaking voice. His father's voice was course now. But he had to admit, Piotr could tell, when his father sang, that Nikolai once had the singing voice of the devil himself, much like Mikhail had.

The man at the door, however, would not have been interested in this petty information. In fact, the man's appearance was enough for Alexandra to give a small gasp and stand creakily, and for Piotr to clench a fist as he stood, the drawing forgotten on the chair. The man's features were obscured in shadow, though an ominous cape was visible from beneath the man's helmeted face. Glowing white eyes smouldered at the Rasputin family.

"Good evening, Nikolai Rasputin." The mention of Nikolai's name by the stranger was enough to have Piotr move further from Illyana's bed and closer to his father.

Alexandra nervously skittered behind Piotr and to Illyana's bedside, whispering quick, quiet words to the sick child. Nikolai took a step back, but like the Rasputin men of his line, kept his nervous features masked. -Who are you? How do you know my name?-

"I regret that I do not know Russian myself," the man continued. Without invitation, he glided inside. Beckoning with two fingers, a nervous, small man clutching his cap beneath his mitten-clad hands stepped in and nodded to Nikolai and Piotr.

-I am Yenik, and I have been engaged to translate.- Yenik nodded again, and looked to the man in the helmet. There was no man by that name in the collective, and the invasion of yet another unknown into the house was not accepted well by Piotr or Nikolai.

"My name is Magneto, and I offer a chance for your son, Piotr, to advance help humanity, and to help his own kind."

Nikolai regarded Magneto warily, glancing briefly at Piotr, before looking at Yenik. -His kind? There is nothing wrong with Piotr – he is human, and he is himself. I don't understand what he means.-

Magneto took off his helmet to reveal an older man – much older than Piotr had thought him to be – and looked carefully at Nikolai with sharp blue eyes. "Piotr is special, Nikolai Rasputin. He is a mutant, an exceedingly gifted young man, and he deserves a chance to let his abilities shine as they are meant to."

Piotr was not sure what to say about what was being said about him. He didn't consider himself gifted to the extent that this man was saying he was. Nikolai seemed to be in the same boat, as his posture only straightened, bringing the older Russian to his actual height. -Piotr has family here who appreciate him, and he has promise to be head of the collective someday.-

The next sentence from Magneto seemed to cause Yenik some problems, as the smaller, nervous man had to ask twice for clarification in hushed tones. But he finally managed to translate the mysterious man's words. "Do you really wish for you son to live out his life here? There is a world out there that promises more than a simple farm life can ever promise to a strong, fine man such as Piotr. He would have opportunities never available to him beyond this collective: science, art, medicine. All of that is open to him."

Nikolai paused at those words, and his next words were so slow that Piotr was unsure exactly what his father was thinking. -How would this be open to him, exactly? And what do you want from him? And who are you, exactly?-

Magneto smiled, and while it was not unkindly, it made Piotr nervous. "Like I said, my name is Magneto, and I am a mutant like your son."

-There is no one like my son.- Nikolai interrupted, slashing his hand in the air to emphasize his assurance on this fact. -He is one of a kind.- The statement was made proudly.

"I'm sure he is," Magneto said kindly. "I can assure you, though, that I am similar to your son in many ways." And with this, Magneto raised a hand slightly, making a light fist. It was the first time that Piotr noticed the slight hum that seemed to radiate from Magneto. And with the hum, the silverware in the cupboard flew out and circled the caped man, all while Magneto rose half a meter into the air. Alexandra gasped again, crossing herself, and even Nikolai had to let a look of surprise through his stone exterior.

"As you can see, I am gifted myself," Magneto continued. "I am offering a home to your son that would allow him to learn to use his powers to the fullest potential. Along with that home, I offer the chance of a life time – to learn and study whatever he wishes, and to build a place for himself in the world that would allow him to flourish. I am offering your son a chance to grow into whatever he dreams to be, Nikolai Rasputin. And all I ask is that he come with me."

Caught off guard, Nikolai couldn't help but look from Yenik, to Rasputin, to Piotr. Piotr could see his father was not sure what to say, and in the ensuing silence, Piotr stepped closer to his father, towering him. -My place is with my home, sir, with my family.-

"Your loyalty to your family is admirable, Piotr," Magneto said smoothly, moving his hand to rest the silverware on the table and floating to the ground himself. The blue eyes pierced Piotr. "What of your sister, though?"

Now it was Piotr's turn to blink. -Illyana?-

"Yes, Illyana," Magneto continued. "She is sick, and has been for awhile. Medicine is not available to cure her, and what she needs is not cheap, even in America."

-America?- Nikolai let his awe at the word show through as he said it. -Piotr would be going to…America?-

America was a dream of golden opportunities. Piotr had always been happy with his family, but after a life of collective work, his parents had both been developing small, unspoken seeds of hope that things would change for their children. The Soviet Union was no longer as strong as it had been in it's glory years, even Piotr knew that on some level. The Western world was the place for advancement and power. To Piotr, however, America held little value unless his family was there with him.

"Yes, and he would be well cared for," Magneto assured. The older mutant looked at Piotr with his blue eyes, and locked the Russian mutant's gaze with his next words. "I would be willing to provide education, accommodation, food, and opportunity."

-Opportunity for what?- Piotr asked, uneasy. He didn't like the way Magneto was not saying the price tag on this list of promises. -And what would I be doing?-

"Mutants are not appreciated or accepted, Piotr. You have been lucky in your life in the fact you have not been hunted or cursed for what you are. Others have not been so lucky. They need someone to help them, to rescue them, to be the factor that saves them. I can not save everyone alone, Piotr. That is why I need you to help me. To help me save those who can not save or even speak for themselves."

With Magneto's words, Piotr's gaze wandered back to Illyana, and he watched his younger sister blink sleepily at Alexandra. A chance to save…to be a saviour to others; a role that Piotr was unable to fulfil for Illyana. What difference would he make in the lives of others? He could not even save his sister…

Magneto noticed the thoughtful look that flickered in Piotr's look. "Your sister is sick, Piotr, but she can be saved. I can give her medicine, medical treatment unparalleled by any doctor available here. And I can cure her. She can live the life that she wishes to live, and flourish. Join me, and I will save her, just as you will save others."

Piotr's brow furrowed in thought. Alexandra's breath had caught at this promise from Magneto, and she looked at Piotr. Both knew that the other was thinking of Illyana's future. And both knew the cost of saving her. Piotr's reply was slow. -And what of my family?-

With a sigh, Magneto gave Piotr a sympathetic look. "Sometimes, sacrifice is necessary. I can not guarantee that you will see your family again soon. But if you desire to provide for them, I will make sure that your sister is seen to, and will do what I can to bring your family to a new life in America."

Piotr looked at Nikolai, then to Alexandra, then back to Yenik and Magneto. -I wish to think this over.-

"I will not be back, Piotr. I'm afraid I must have your answer by tonight." The statement was sobering. "I will wait outside. Good evening, Nikolai, Alexandra." With a swish of his cape, and with his helmet replaced, Magneto was gone in three quick strides.

Yenik's head bobbed in farewell and the small, nervous man scrambled out after Magneto. As the door closed, Piotr looked to his mother and father, torn within himself over what to do. Illyana would be treated, cared for…his parents moved to America. Or he could stay here, and be with his family. His parents were not young, even he knew that. Alexandra had wrinkles in her beautiful face, and her hair was turning grey. His father had a hunch to his walk after a long day, and his hair had long ago acquired streaks of white. And Illyana was in no condition to provide for the family…

-My place is here with you, father.- Piotr's voice was almost lost in the dying fire's crackles.

-Son, you have been the child I have always wanted. Strong, hard-working, and proud to be a Russian.- Nikolai placed a hand on Piotr's shoulder, looking up at him. -I could not have asked for a better son. And that is why I want you to decide for yourself. Son, this is the chance of a life time. You can stay here, with us, and we will be proud of your choice. Or you can go, and we will be proud of your choice as well. Do not think of us, son. We can take care of ourselves. With him, you have a chance to learn, to grow, and to be in America! A chance at knowledge is invaluable, Piotr, and I would not have you throw aside such a chance just because you are afraid that your father can no longer provide.-

Piotr nodded, and glanced at Illyana. Alexandra stepped forward, Illyana long since gone to sleep once more. -Piotr, I can not love you more. Please, son, do not base your decision on us. Either way, you are fulfilling our hopes.-

-If I go, I can give Illyana a chance at the life she deserves.- Piotr said slowly. He was unsure of what he wanted. No, he was sure of what he wanted, he told himself. But he was conflicted. For once, the selfish side of him had risen. He did not want to leave his family.

-Illyana will live, son.- Nikolai assured Piotr. -You are selfless, son, a trait that is not acquired by many, and displayed by even less. But this is not about Illyana, it is about what you want.- Alexandra nodded in agreement.

No matter how many times Nikolai assured that, however, Piotr couldn't help but think that this decision was about the family as a whole. Piotr was just turned nineteen, and while he was of legal age to start his own household in the Soviet Union, he had stayed with his family. He had never found anyone, and was too concerned about his sister and aging parents to think about leaving them now, no matter his desires. Now…here was a chance to save his sister, and perhaps gains something himself too. The fact that he was taking into account what HE wanted to do was enough to send both excited shivers and tremors of disgust down Piotr's spine. He was determined to make the right decision; the decision that would benefit the family the most. And to him, at that moment, that decision was to leave.

-I think…- Piotr faltered, glancing once more to Illyana and the unfinished picture on the chair next to the window. -I wish for Illyana to have a chance to live without illness. I do not want you, father and mother, to grow old here, working every day. I want to see you happy, and I can not provide you with your hopes.-

Nikolai nodded. -Son, do not base your decision solely on us.- Yet his face shown with pride.

Piotr raised up a hand to indicate he was not finished. -What I want is what is best for the family. And I see the best chance for this family in this man, Magneto. I will go, with the promise to see you three once more.-

-Oh, Piotr!- Alexandra burst into tears, and embraced Piotr in a dramatic sweep of emotion. Nikolai held his own emotions back, as he always had, and clapped Piotr on the shoulder. Piotr put his arms around his mother, and could have sworn that his father's eyes had a sheen to them. But Piotr's gaze was held by Illyana's sleeping form.

-I will come back, someday, I promise mama, papa.- The older terms of endearment were not lost on the two parents, who smiled at their son, bursting with pride at his selflessness. Opportunities were unfolding themselves like flower petals, and it was the thought of their son with a proper education that made the Rasputin elders puff out their chests with pride.

For Piotr, however, there was a pit in his stomach, as the desire to stay was forced into a knot of embitterment, and buried beneath altruism. Moving to Illyana, Piotr put a gentle hand on her shoulder, and was surprised when the girl woke up. Part of him hoped dearly he hadn't disturbed her, and the other part, related to the buried bitterness, relished the fact he would get to say goodbye.

Illyana blinked her beautiful, crystalline blue eyes at Piotr, and grabbed his hand, as if sensing his departure. -Brother, what is going on?- Her short sentence was followed by a chesty cough, and in that instance, Piotr knew that no matter his own feelings, he would not regret his decision.

-I am going away for awhile, Illyana. I have been offered a great chance to help others like me, and to get medicine for you.- Piotr's voice dropped a bit as affection crept through his carefully arranged face.

The girl's eyes widened, and she looked to Nikolai and Alexandra. -Is it true, mama, papa?-

Alexandra moved to her daughter's side and stroked her blonde hair. -Yes, dear one, it is. Your brother is making a great sacrifice for us, and for others. He will be back one day.-

-Yes, one day.- Piotr could only echo. It was getting hard again to keep that bitterness down.

-I don't want you to go!- Illyana shouted, causing a cough that she attempted to fight through. -W-What about my picture you promised me? And who will tell me stories?-

-I promise, I will be back to finish this.- Piotr reached over for the unfinished princess picture and handed it to Illyana, putting it in her hand and placing his other hand over hers. -One day, I will come back and finish that picture for you. And I will draw you hundreds more. I promise.-

Illyana was quiet, tired, and upset. She found the strength to hug Piotr around the neck, hanging on and burying her face into the curve of his shoulder, trembling slightly. -You promise?-

Piotr hugged her back, whispering, as that was the only level he dared to talk at at the moment. -I promise, little snowflake. I promise.-

-Kiss on it.-

The door opened in the background, the knock lost in Piotr's whirling mind, and suddenly, a hand was on the Russian mutant's shoulder. It was not Nikolai, however, but Magneto. The sight of the now helmeted visage caused Illyana to shrink slightly, and lapse into coughing. As if on cue, Magneto motioned, and a metal case floated to Alexandra, which the elder lady opened, and almost burst into tears at the sight of professional medicine in bottles and packets. Directions in Russian were written out.

Turning back to Piotr, Magneto motioned to him. "It is time to leave, Piotr."

Piotr didn't need Yenik to translate to understand what Magneto meant. Standing, and giving Illyana a kiss on the forehead, sealing the promise, Piotr stepped back.

-Good bye, Piotr, my son!- Alexandra hugged her son once more, ignoring the water from her cheeks that found its way to his shirt. She didn't need to remind him to remember them. They all knew he would.

-Good bye, mama. I will see you again!- Alexandra nodded at her son's insistence, and smiled despite her tears and runny nose.

Moving after Magneto, Piotr stopped at Nikolai, and the two Rasputin men watched each other's eyes for a moment, each communicating more by sight than by sound their own goodbyes. After what seemed like years, Nikolai embraced Piotr, briefly, and patted his son's shoulder. -Remember, Piotr. Trust what you know, learn all you can, and follow what you know is right.-

-Yes, papa.- Piotr nodded at the imparted words of wisdom. Looking back once more, he saw Illyana's eyes meet his, the blue almost hidden in tears, and unable to say any more, Piotr stepped outside to save his emotions from cracking forth.

"You have chosen well, Piotr. Come, we have much to do." Magneto looked down at Piotr from the hover he was now in, and Piotr could only nod, only understanding that they were leaving.

As metal orbs descended from the sky, Piotr couldn't help but be impressed, and wondered if perhaps he really was doing the best thing. It was, after all, natural to be nervous. Piotr's eyes widened in wonder at the metal orbs opening with barely a flex from Magneto's little finger, and stepping in at Magneto's motioning, Piotr caught sight of the house one last time before the orb closed. The small cottage was dusted in frost, and rain continued to come down unabated. The shutters seemed to hide sorrow and joy that Piotr knew was inside. He didn't know he would never see the house again.

The window opened a crack to admit Piotr a last view of Illyana, as delicate and as beautiful as the snow that would come. And it was Illyana's blue eyes framed with her thin blonde hair that draped across her cheeks that Piotr saw last. It was right after Piotr was enveloped in darkness and a sensation of flying overcame him that Piotr realised that he was turning into the thing he had always wanted to be. The protector, guarding Illyana, caring for his parents, working for others, was now becoming a saviour to the ones he cared for most deeply. The collective would live without him. Magneto had said there were others out there, mutants that needed his help. And Piotr was determined to give it. After all, that was what everyone was looking for: salvation.


	2. Chapter 2: Stability

_**Author's Note**__**: **_Please see the author's note in the chapter before.

_**Summary**_: _"The lack of money is the root of all evil." – Mark Twain_ : The story of St. John Alleryce's recruitment by Magneto.

_**Notes**_: For a good translation of Australian slang, go to: ..

_**Disclaimer**_: I do not own any of the characters in this piece. They are the property of Marvel Studios.

**Chapter Two: Stability**

He couldn't help but think that the old man had been joking with him when he had said "it will only be a little bit of rain". Thinking back on it, he was sure that there had been a smile hidden in the crow's eyes of the old man's face as he sat on his porch, fanning himself with a palm leaf. That had to be it. The old man was out to get him! After all, Thailand was full of tourists – he couldn't imagine that the locals were thrilled to see yet another Aussie asking for directions. Now, with a full monsoon hitting, all he could think about was the old man laughing at the traveller's unpreparedness.

St. John Allerdyce didn't mind unexpected events happening. After all, the past year and a half had proved that John's life was anything but stable. Sometimes, John even wondered how stable his own mind was. That was part of the reason he was in Thailand at the moment, searching for the meaning of sanity. That search, however, was being impeded by the fact that John's tobacco pouch had been a victim of the tropical monsoon that found John while on the road from Bangkok to Phra Nakhon.

Sighing, John sat on the dry ground under cover of a tree, slinging his pack to the ground along with the two others who were joining him on the trek. Leaning against the backpack, moving the tent a bit so that the poles weren't jabbing into his back, John took out the black notebook that had accompanied him through both the expected and unexpected. It was a worn thing, almost grey due to the fact that front cover was so frayed. Now water was being added to the edges of the journal, but John didn't mind. Water damage would give it character.

Listening to the rain patter against the broad leaves of plants John hadn't even begun to bother identifying, John had been hoping to gather some inspiration to fill the empty and eager pages of his idea journal, as he liked to think of it as. Nothing came, however. No matter how much he travelled, or how fast he moved away, Australia still loomed in his mind and his writing. The first page was filled with bits of memory about Sydney, Brisbane, Perth. There were few places John hadn't been in Australia, discounting the large portion of the Outback that was the centre of the Land Down Under. John didn't care much for the Outback, however. He never had. It had been too familiar to him to be an acceptable living spot. Every day, John had heard some mention of the iconic Australian landscape, and every day pictures from the Outback graced the newspapers as if the Outback were the only thing to celebrate. By the time he left home, John had been sick of hearing about and seeing the Outback, and having travelled through it, in hopes that he would change his mind about it, John realised his mind would never change about it. No matter Lawson's glorifications of the bushman, John never wanted to be one. It had been done before, and what John wanted was something newer.

Yet despite his love for the new, John found that the words he was writing effortlessly now were about Australia. John had never told his parents what he wrote. When they asked, he had lied, and told them science fiction, as that had seemed an acceptable answer for a boy his age. He never knew what his parents would have said if they read the romantic tales his pages were filled with. Love, despair, betrayal, the supernatural, and the twisted – it was the Gothic literature that captivated John so deeply, and moved him enough to pick up a pen and write. Not much moved John to devote himself so deeply to a task that he often stayed up all night to finish a thought or missed meals to work on editing words.

But like his desires in travel, John wanted to try to branch out, to write something new, yet like his travels, John was stuck. He had thought escaping Australia would bring a better sense of self and purpose. Thailand wasn't promising to do either. Stopping after dotting a sentence with a flourish, John wished desperately for a smoke, already feeling his nicotine dependency whining for a fix. He groaned to himself, causing the other two to glance his way. Perhaps Thailand had been a mistake. In Australia, he could easily have asked anyone for a smoke, but here, he barely knew enough Thai to get around, much less ask for a cigarette. He would have asked his travel companions if they hadn't already proven to be the non-smoking types by the crosses dangling from their necks. It was a hard knock life, being a traveller, John concluded with a woeful, inwardly sigh.

No matter how much his situation at the moment – wet, hot, broke, without a cigarette – seemed to be bad, John couldn't help but remind himself that his situation in Australia had not been much better. What could he say? Nothing was stable in life. It had been a long journey for him. Sydney seemed so long ago that John almost had to strain to remember his old address. He knew where he had lived, but the place had never inspired enough good memories to bother remembering the exact location. John had always known he'd leave by the time he was eighteen, if not earlier. Home had never been John's thing, and it had never been his parent's thing either. Routine dominated the household. His mother would ignore him when he had come back from school, and at night, his father would arrive back, drink if he was not already pissed, and the fighting would ensue. He always blamed John.

"If you hadn' been born as a bloody freak, we'd 'ave 'ad a normal life!" His father's words were slurred almost beyond recognition. "Nothin's been goin' right after your bloody fire stuff started happenin'!"

John's mother had long ago stopped defending him, and often was right alongside Bill, nodding her lovely head in agreement. John could remember Melissa defending him once or twice, when he was eleven and scared. His powers had come to exist during a camping trip with the neighbour boys and their families. It had been a simple game that had set it off.

"Ha, I win!" John had to admit, he had been cocky as a young child. According to the girls he had slept with, he hadn't changed much either. "I got the ball right past yer face, Al!"

Al crossed his wiry eleven year old arms. "You got lucky, you did! If you'd have come at be straight on, you know I would have taken you down."

"Nuh-uh!" Johno smirked, tossing the rugby ball between his hands. "You're just a sore loser, Al. You know I've got more skill than you an' yer mates put together."

"I can't say if that's true cause you never try charging at me! You'd think you were scared to find out, acting like that." Al smiled, his teeth visible even in the fading light. He was missing a tooth that had fallen out days earlier. "Not my faults you ain't got the guts to prove yer better."

John rounded on Albert, his eyes glinting a bit at the insult. "Oy! You're the one too chicken to prove it!"

The two started at each other, the rugby ball falling and rolling towards the fire, but the other boys caught their respective mates and attempted to diffuse the situation. Al finally backed off, causing John to stop as well. The two glared at each other. Back then, they had been best of mates, and also the best enemies when they hit each other's right nerves.

"Aw, it ain't worth it," Al finally said. "It ain't worth fightin' over." John nodded his agreement, and brushed off imaginary dirt when Al said the thing that would be John's downfall. "Besides, we both know who won with Alice."

John froze, and then turned on Al. "The only reason she'd go out with a dipstick like you is because you were a bloody dobber!"

"Not my fault she ain't interested in someone who hasn't got a brass razoo," Al spat back, and with that reminder of the poor financial situation the Allerdyce's lived in, John reached out and smacked Al across the face with a perfectly clenched right fist.

There were whispers among the kids as the two boys collided, the blue they had attempted to prevent earlier coming into fruition despite their best efforts. Tussling in the dirt, half lost in the darkness not chased away by the firelight, the other boys began to chant for the one they thought would win. Despite the reddish dirt, John's hair still stood out vividly, bright red against red-brown. Red became a theme for the boys, as Albert's mouth began to bleed from a good punch by John, and John's nose dripped blood onto Albert after a right hook made up for the mouth hit. Thrown part way by a good shove from Albert, John hit the ground hard, crying out in pain as his arm cracked against a rock.

"You take that back!" John screamed, his words echoing off the rocks and blowing through the trees. Al only laughed at John's rage, causing John to react even more rashly.

Al stood, despite the beating, having always been the stronger of the two, and smirked at John. "Come on, mate, let's be done with it. We both know I won in that regard and you lost, an' that's the dinkum fact."

Holding out his hand, Albert offered a hand to the fallen John, but John felt nothing but loathing for the mate who had taken the girl of his dreams. John didn't see Al's attempt at mending the insult, all he saw was her beautiful, raven black hair and alabaster skin that she took meticulous care of. Al had known of his crush on Alice…and had gone around his back spreading the fact that John wasn't as fancy as his name suggested. The anger inside John twisted and churned. It grew, swelling through his muscles and bones, and seeping into his face. Al must have seen the anger, however, it was the fire that caught even his attention.

The campfire twisted, and began to grow, spreading over the stone circle and growing outward and up. Making a line towards John, the red head barely noticed when the fire began to gather around him. It should have surprised him, and would later on if he hadn't felt the overwhelming urge to be surrounded in the flames. Everything inside him was a torrent of anger and heat. The words Al had said were eclipsed by the anger he felt at Alice's rejection, at his parent's decision to spend what little they had on things that didn't matter, and at all of the kids at school who had made fun of him for both. As each memory flashed in his mind, the fire grew, and as John stood, he was engulfed in his anger – he couldn't see the fire anymore. Only those who had spurned him stood in his line of sight, and the nearest person who qualified for that description was Al.

Engulfed in flames, John could only laugh at Albert's face, before reaching out and punching Albert once across the face. He was one with the licking flames, the flying embers. Inside his skin, John felt ready to burst out, to shed the small prison that held him inside and rise up into the Australian sky. The brush glowed red as the fire around John rose and rose, forming a crude, laughing face that didn't laugh but roared into the coming night. The others watched in a mixture of horror and awe, and John liked to think that they had all been jealous as well. Jealous of John's acquisition of strength and deadliness, and jealous of the infinite power that seemed to come with the flooding of fire.

Fire sizzled against skin, and Albert's scream broke John's rush. The flames subsided, the fire out, and only the moon and the Southern Cross were left. Shock set in at what he had done. He, the smaller, had just won. With flames. Flames that had responded to him, and HIM ALONE. He had felt the heat of the fire, but had not been burned, and it had been his to command, he knew he could have done more! And even better, the fire had saved him and helped him win the fight.

Ready to gloat, John turned his glinting, dark blue eyes to Albert, but the boasting died in his throat. Albert's face was a mess, flesh singed from a large burn spot standing out even in the limited light. The boys parted as John approached, and realising he had hurt his best mate badly, John felt the triumphant power in him deflate rapidly. "Albert, I-I-"

Albert stared up at John, snapping out of the shock he was in to scoot on his arse in the dirt. "Y-You stay away from me! You freak! Monster! Bloody hell, Johno, you fucking monster!" Finding his legs, Albert staggered off at a run, and the others joined him, casting fervent glances back at the being of fire who now stood unlit.

When John had reached camp, news had spread, and his parents were already being cornered, accusations flying about their freak of a son. "You've got to leave! Now! We won't have your son burning us all down, or worse, killing us! He's a freak! A monster! Get 'im out of here!"

"But, but, he's never done this before!" Melissa had pleaded. The Allerdyce's tent was already dismantled, thrown at her feet in a disorganised pile. "John's perfectly fine!"

"He almost killed my Albert!" A reedy voice rose from the crowd, warbling like a cocky above the angry outcries of others. "He's a menace!"

"John is not a menace, your boy is!" His father had shouted back, and feeling that his father would surely protect him, John had emerged, slinking into the main light of the group's torches.

"There he is! The little, bloody bastard!" The adults roared, some grabbing whatever was closest to shove at John.

"Leave him alone!" Melissa screamed at the same time a rock collided with John's face.

Shocked, John had not know what to do, except to stagger back and put a hand to the new bump on his face. Shouts continued to buzz around him, and pebbles began to pelt his face and arms. Dirt was kicked into his eyes, and crying out, John reached a hand towards the last thing he saw clearly, the camp fire. And it had been over in minutes. The pebbles and dirt stopped and the screaming started.

That had been the reason for their move from Sydney. It seemed so long ago… John had wished his parents had understood. They had pretended too, but grog became the beverage of choice after the silent and tense move, and as the years went on and the family fell from fortune's favours, John knew that the grudge his parents harboured was always aimed at him. Fearing his powers, John had never been touched by his parents unless they were so far gone they forgot. And it had only taken a few kicks before John learned to carry a lighter. In the first year, he went through several, keeping his parents reminded of the power he had, and used up in practicing to control the fire that now smouldered in himself.

It had ended up that John had left earlier than legally allowed. Sixteen, young, and believing he was free, John could remember more clearly the fish and chips shop he had worked at in Brisbane, lying that he was eighteen and living on his own. Half of it had been true! The job had been dull, and agitating to John, and he left after two months, unable to ignore the wanderlust that had grabbed a hold of him.

These days, it was one of few things that John had left of his older, younger self. Wanderlust, writing, and the same rush of joy and madness that came every time John controlled a flame. He didn't know whether he regretted his powers or not, but they had saved him so many times, that he couldn't see them as a curse anymore. They were a gift. John valued his powers as much as he valued his writing. It was so ingrained with in him, that he couldn't imagine not having the ability to have either. Even though Australia had been nothing but a land of disappointments, at least Australia had given him his gift of fire.

Like his writing, though, John found that as intoxicating as the control over flame was, it left him on a high he couldn't quite shake. It was a jittery feeling that nicotine helped to soothe sometimes. Yet the longer he controlled a flame, the harder it was to come back to earth. Things had never been stable in John's life, but with the addition of the beast that came with his powers, John had pinned his hopes of finding something to inspire him to hang on in Thailand. He had planned on finding a new thought to anchor to, a new purpose, but all he could think of was the failure that he left in his wake.

It was that reminiscence that was interrupted by the sudden floating billy in front of John's face. Blinking, it took John a moment to realise that it was HIS cooking pot floating in front of him, and that everyone else was currently running from various tent poles, metal cookery, and army knives whirring around the road they had been travelling on.

"Oy!" John shouted as the cart man the group had hired pushed his horse forward, leaving behind John and the two other travellers. The two others John had been journeying with tried to grab their bags, but after getting almost stabbed, they left their metal objects behind and ran with what they could grab.

Attempting to grab his own pack, almost twisting an arm at grabbing the sixty litre bag in a hurry, John was intent on doing the smart thing and running – rain wouldn't help him in his defense! The billy, however, floated around him, and was swiftly joined by the rest of the metal items that seemed to have grown invisible wings and minds of their own. Furrowing his brow, John slid a hand into his pocket and with a practiced movement, drew out the orange lighter he had been using for the past few weeks. Flicking the light, John was only half surprised when the lighter flew from his hands – but he had managed to grab a spark and twist it into flames.

"I am sorry for the pretext of this meeting, St. John, but I wanted our words to be private." The voice was from above, and instinctively, John looked up, attempting to concentrate on keeping the flame alive, even in the rain.

The owner of the voice appeared through the brush, floating down to hover a metre off the ground and a metre away from John. The metal that had been threatening John turned to slowly circle the caped man, including John's billy. John almost felt betrayed by his pot, but he supposed the man had a magnetic personality. At his own joke, John grinned, and in that brief spurt of good mood that followed, John had to acquiesce to listening to the man.

"All right, bloke, I suppose I can spare a moment. What's important enough for you to turn me own billy against me?" John didn't let the fire die, though his voice was congenial.

Though he couldn't see the man, John thought he heard a tint of amusement. "It is about your gift, John. We have a lot in common."

John snorted. "Aye, we might, but I don't go around throwing the cookery everywhere! Always left that to my mum."

With that comment, the objects whirred faster, and John barely saw his billy fly at him. Thinking it was going to hit him, John held up his arm, but was surprised when the billy snuffed out the fireball he had been holding. Holding up his hands, John backed up a step. "I don't want any trouble, mate."

"Nor do I," said the man, and with that, the metal items dropped to the ground and the man settled to the ground. His helmet floated off, revealing white hair and an old face that made John step back once more, unsettled. "I am Magneto, and I am a mutant like yourself."

"So I see," was all John found to say. He had never met another mutant, though he had been sure that Jessie had the ability to fit into pants three sizes to small, as no girl could have that large of an arse, John was sure of it! "What do you want, Magneto the mutant mate?"

"I am putting together a team of mutants to help me make this world a better place. Mutants, as you know, St. John, are not accepted by the populace. We are rejected as people, and seen as monsters. Our lives are turbulent and uncertain, and many of our kind do not receive the rights that are guaranteed. That is why I am recruiting mutants who know what the instability that comes with our kind. I want to create a place where mutants can finally have the respect and the place that they deserve. A place where mutants can belong. A safe haven."

It was an impressive speech, and John knew he'd be writing it down later, if not for the words which were not necessarily ingenious, but in hopes of capturing how the man said them. John realised Magneto was waiting for a response, however, and said slowly, "So what does this have to do with me, mate? I don't go waltzin' Matilda with any ol' bloke."

"You are like me, John," Magneto said patiently. John thought he saw a flash of ice in the old man's blue eyes, but John wasn't sure. "We have both been abused simply because we are different."

"Maybe," said John, not wanting to commit. "What would this get me, though? It's nice helpin' out everyone, but I ain't exactly got the means to be runnin' around with you. Especially a bloke I just met."

"I know a lot about you, St. John, and one thing I know is that you are unstable in all aspects of your life," Magneto said. "Including financially. I assure you, I have the means to make this worth your while."

And with that, the tone changed. Lofty turned to down-to-earth. "Oh? Enlighten me, ol' bloke."

"Work for me, help mutant kind, and I will give you everything you have been lacking these past years. Shelter, food, work, whatever it is you desire. I have the means to help you make your life what you want it to be."

John was silent for a moment, rubbing his chin, watching the rain drip off his journal. Mud was starting to take over the dirt road, and John realised that he hadn't washed his shirt in four days. His boots were tearing at the seams, and still had the red dirt of Australia in the soles. In his pack was a single can of Vegemite and two pieces of bread left that he had planned on eating for dinner. He hadn't planned as far as breakfast. Fourteen dollars in Australian money rolled around in his pocket, and John knew he would be stuck in Thailand for months before he had the money to fly somewhere else.

There was no set plan, and nothing but a string of second rate jobs, cheap beer, and if he was lucky, loose women were in John's future. He had spent years living in instability, defining the word with his continuously changing living space, job, finances, and even appearance. But to throw away the freedom he had gained for the promise of some stability was something that made John wary. Especially someone who knew so much about him…

"I gotta know mate, how do you know so much about me? You aren't exactly a fellow Aussie," John stated. He wanted to know before he made a decision.

"There is a lot I know, John," said Magneto, spreading his hands in a gesture of peace, as if smoothing over a trouble point. "I have known about you for awhile, and have heard the tales."

"Why come for me now?"

"Because now I have the ability to give you what you desire."

"And what is that, mate?"

"The power to decide how others view you."

And indeed, the promise of power drew John. He knew that despite the turbulence of his life, he had learned a lot, and could defend himself. No matter the power the old bloke showed, John was certain he could take care of himself in a tight spot. As if confirming his feeling, Magneto moved his hand and offered John's now mud covered lighter to the pyro. John hesitated. It was now or never. Going with this man meant that John might finally have the money to make the life he wanted.

"Eh, fair dinkum. Suppose you got me figured, so why not?" John flashed a saucy grin at Magneto and grabbed the lighter, flicking it open and shut. "Though I'll warn ya, mate, I've been told I'm a bit of a bushfire."

Magneto's helmet was replaced and he chuckled, summoning John's pack off the ground and two orbs from the sky. "I'm not the one who will be fearing your powers, John. It will be those who did you wrong."

The flame sparked by the lighter rose to form a brief dragon flaring its wings before the rain put it out. Clicking the lighter shut, John smirked. "I reckon you're right." The manic feeling fire brought burned inside John as he stepped into the waiting orb. John wasn't sure exactly what was happening, but he knew that life was unstable. If he found stability, he would count his blessings. But he wasn't counting on finding anything.


	3. Chapter 3: Escape

_**Author's Note**__**: **_Please see the author's note in the chapter before.

_**Summary**_: _"__Maybe all one can do is hope to end up with the right regrets." - __  
__Arthur Miller_ : The story of Remy LeBeau's recruitment by Magneto.

_**Notes**_: For French phrase translation, Babelfish will give you a good approximation.

_**Disclaimer**_: I do not own any of the characters in this piece. They are the property of Marvel Studios.

**Chapter Three: Escape**

Smoke rings floated into the air and dissipated with a final, parting curl into the haze that hung over the card table. It was early, and the haze wasn't to fog consistency yet, allowing the card players to see the unclouded eyes of the other gamblers. This visage posed no advantage at the high roller's table, however, many liked to think seeing the eyes of others gave them an advantage. One person obviously didn't believe so, or believed so to the extent that they hid their eyes with sunglasses indoors. It was odd, even for the French Quarter.

This oddity amused an older gambler everyone knew as Saul, identifiable by the prematurely grey streaks in his hair. "Light in yer eyes, or jus' blinded by yer own comin' defeat?"

"I wouldn't count the chickens before dey hatch, Saul," the sunglass-clad figure grinned, fingering the edges of the cards idly. "Let's see what ya have, and then we'll see who needs the glasses."

The corner of Saul's mouth twitched, and the cards were played, the fortune falling to the sunglass-clad one. As the brown haired man took the money, another player threw down his own cards. "If LeBeau's going ta play in this round, count me out. Le diable blanc is too good for me."

Tipping his hat, the discontent gambler left, earning a respectful nod from Remy LeBeau. Life wasn't always hard in the Big Easy. As the son of the head of the Thieves' Guild – adopted had no meaning when the family could steal the pants from the President or charm the wings from flies – Remy found he was generally treated with respect. Some gave him genuine respect, like Saul. Remy knew he was known for his eyes, and feared for them, which is were the other kind of respect came from: out of fear. Those were the ones that called Gambit "the white devil". Finally, there were some that knew Remy's gifts, and respected him for his talent in fighting, thieving, and his mysterious explosive powers. The latter type of respect was usually grudgingly given, and quick to disappear when he slipped up.

"Well, I don't think Remy'll be joinin' in dis round, as he has a previous engagement." The comment came with a hand on Remy's shoulder, and Remy knew that the rest of his night was gone. Jean-Luc nodded to the other gamblers as Remy stood. "Evenin', gentlemen."

Brushing off Jean-Luc's hand, Remy nodded his own farewell to the regulars. He'd see them again next week, if life permitted it. At the rate that he left games, however, he was surprised he was allowed in at all. These days, he had no control over his own time, anymore, and there was nothing more annoying than a consistently inconsistent regular.

"Didn't know I had a date," Remy muttered as he stepped outside, reaching for his trench coat pocket he knew his smokes were in. "You the lucky cheri tonight, Jean-Luc?"

"Cute, Remy," Jean-Luc grunted, letting the jazz bar door close behind him. "Somethin' came up and I need you."

"You don't need me, you need my powers. I've heard better pick up lines from Julien." The smoke found its way into Remy's fingers, and a small spark lit the stick.

Jean-Luc's eyes slid over at the sparking, but he didn't say anything about the cigarette. "The Boudreaux's have been meddlin' again. I need you to get back a certain few items that we need ta make a deal with a few friends of ours."

Remy took a drag before answering, thinking. He always seemed to be pulled out for these assignments. They had three defining characteristics: they were dangerous, they always involved at least two semi-automatic guns, and the only way to accomplish them was with the use of Remy's uncanny ability to charm his way out of situations, run, jump, and move faster than normal, and most importantly, blow things up.

"I'd ask why me, but I'm guessin' it's because I'm the most skilled, the most handsome, and the most insane fer this job." Remy flicked ash onto the street and gave a polite nod to an attractive brunette and her just as attractive black-haired friend. Remy still held to the idea that Louisiana had no unattractive lady under thirty. "Not to mention the only one who can destroy whatever supposedly impossible thing it is."

"I don't like your tone, boy. This family's done a lot for you, and you know we all do our part for the guild." Jean-Luc gave a stern look that would have resembled a fatherly look of admonishment if Remy didn't feel like he was still on trial period for full entrance into the family.

"An' I've done a lot fer this family, Jean-Luc," Remy sighed. He took another drag, attempting to blow the smoke out through his nose and failing. Etienne had made it look so easy. Of course, Etienne had made dealing with Jean-Luc look easy. Recently, Remy had found that nicotine eased the tension. "Is it to much ta ask fer one night not on duty? You've sent Remy on the past four assignments, once because you needed him, three jus' fer safety. Someone else can do dis one."

Remy remembered last time he was pulled out of his life to attend to the Thieves Guild. He had been wooing three beautiful femme at the bar, and had been showing off his card tricks. There had been a very good chance of going home with one of the fine ladies that night. It had been his first night on the town in a month without some ulterior motive. Remy had been drinking for pleasure, not to drown out Jean-Luc. The night had ended with Jean-Luc pulling him out to go on an assignment that he had cancelled the night before. That was two weeks ago, and Remy was getting fed up at being pulled from his small social circle he managed to keep.

Jean-Luc never saw much need to associate outside of the Thieves Guild, however, and his disdain for Remy's craving for recreation shone through. "I don' care if you were goin' at it wi' the hottest femme dis side of the Mississippi, Remy. If the Guild needs you, we need you, and yer goin' to respond whether you like it or not."

Grabbing Remy's half used cigarette, Jean-Luc took a long drag, pausing the conversation for a moment. It let Jean-Luc clear his mind, and let Remy hide his anger beneath a careful façade that Jean-Luc had gone to such pains to teach him. He'd do the job, Remy always did, but there was nothing Jean-Luc would do to make him be on duty this Sunday. It was the last night of the Jazz Festival down town, and Remy had a date with Claire, the waitress at one of the bars he managed to appear at a few times a week, despite Jean-Luc's best attempts.

"Merde, Remy'll go," Remy conceded, letting Jean-Luc finish the cigarette. "But no more assignments! Not till after this weekend. Fer once, Remy would like-"

"We'd all like a lot a things, Remy, but we don't get 'em," Jean-Luc scoffed between pulls on the smoke. "I know you got a date with that waitress, and it ain't happenin'. Yer goin' with Bella."

It took Remy a minute to process that. "Bella? Bella Donna Boudreaux?"

"Yeah. Figure it's time ta see if that prophecy is goin' to be answered," said Jean-Luc with the natural nonchalance that came with him. Remy knew that was a trait that came with every LeBeau – a naturally cool head and at times blasé attitude to danger. But the Boudreauxs, he thought, deserved a bit more thoughtful approach than Remy thought Jean-Luc was showing.

It wasn't necessarily the lack of reason that Jean-Luc was giving that Remy was angry about, however. Remy was twenty, going on twenty-one, and the fact that he couldn't choose something as simple as who he wanted to take to the Jazz Festival was irritating. Through the years, Remy had wondered why half of the thieves in the guild were so jaded when it came to having lives outside of the Guild. Now he was finding out. Jean-Luc was an efficient leader, deadly efficient, but Remy didn't necessarily need guidance in his personal life.

"I promised de femme from the bar, Jean-Luc, and Remy's not about to go back on his word."

"She'll get over it. You'll charm your way back into her heart in the time it takes a gator to get in the water," Jean-Luc shrugged, blowing out smoke into the night air as the two walked along the road towards Blood Moon Bayou.

Aggravated didn't being to explain Remy's mood. Jean-Luc continued. "I already have confirmation on when Bella's arrivin' to the festival, which I'll pass on to ya before you go."

"You have all my lines written out fer me too, Jean-Luc?" Remy grumbled, kicking a stone to hear the satisfying clatter of the pebble along the concrete. He pretended it was Jean-Luc's head.

"I figured I'd let you figure dat one out." Jean-Luc had the audacity to wink at Remy, as if giving him a favour.

"Merci." The tone wasn't the nicest, and Jean-Luc noticed the sarcasm instantly.

"You got a problem?" Jean-Luc raised an eyebrow, the cigarette halfway to his mouth.

Remy knew he shouldn't say anything. Just move on, do the jobs, and sneak out when he could. He knew, however, that the next time he would be sneaking out would be after 2am next week. Maybe. He was twenty, and had the freedom of a trained dog. When he was younger, he hadn't minded as much, but now Remy was ready to have more freedom than Jean-Luc was ready to give. Remy was never sure exactly what Jean-Luc meant by limiting him. As much as Remy would like to say it was the fatherly instinct, but Jean-Luc wasn't exactly one to invest in emotions.

Last time Remy had attempted to go his own way, Jean-Luc had ignored him and sent him on an assignment that had worn out Remy to the point of forgetting why he had attempted to leave. There had been several instances when Remy had left the guild, but he had always come back out of guilt for abandoning other family members. Jean-Luc had never said anything, but he always had that look of smug knowing. Once a Thieves Guild member, always a Thieves Guild member. Remy couldn't deny his roots…but he sure wished his roots didn't contain Jean-Luc!

And now Jean-Luc wanted to control Remy's personal life. Professional life, Remy could live with, but especially since he was turning twenty-one soon, and Remy eventually wanted to settle down, Remy wanted the freedom to pursue a life. Remy knew about the prophecy about uniting the two warring guilds, but that meant marrying a Boudreaux, and the current, eligible one was Bella Donna. Bella was beautiful, fiery, and bossy. It was her way or the highway. She was almost exactly like Remy, and that's exactly what Remy didn't want.

"I don't want to marry Bella." Remy went ahead and said it. He fingered the release for his bo staff, but refrained, choosing to tighten his grip instead.

"Never said anythin' about marryin', Remy."

"You implied it, Jean-Luc. Prophecy says unite, and you've made it clear dat ye think it means marryin'."

Jean-Luc sighed and flicked the cigarette over a bridge, watching it fizzle in the running water below. "We'll talk about it later, Remy. Just go get what's ours from the damn Assassins."

Remy knew that he was being brushed off, and that there would be no talk later. "Non, Jean-Luc. We're talkin' now."

"Non, we're not talkin' now, Remy." Jean-Luc looked at Remy with no condescension this time. "You've got a job ta do, and you'll do it, because it's for this family. If marryin' Bella stops this war, then you'll do it. Sorry, Remy, but life ain't fair, an' yer luck could be a lot worse than marryin' Belle Donna. Lucian and a few others are waitin' for ya at the Blood Moon Bayou. You know what ta do."

With a curt nod to Remy, Jean-Luc strode off, leaving Remy at the walkway that would take him to the beginning of the bayou. He took a deep breath to keep from saying anything to Jean-Luc, but once the man was gone, he extended his bo staff and swung at the air. The sound of air rushing helped calm Remy down, but still feeling nervous, Remy lit up another cigarette and leaned against a tree, staring down the path.

He was tired of this. When would he have time to himself? This wasn't the life that he wanted. No one inside the Guild was married to anyone outside of the Guild, and if they wanted to marry a non-Guild member, that person had to be approved. Everyone was involved in Guild business, and the Guild came before life. On top of that, war continued between the two Guilds, and Remy was tired of people coming home hurt or killed. There were few people his age, and on top of that, the respect he often had from others was of the fear or grudging kind. Remy knew he was different because of his powers, but he didn't want to be feared for them. He didn't want to be used either. There were few options in Remy's line of work. It was either work for the Guild and try to live past fifty, or die trying. No one left.

It wasn't the life Remy wanted. There were parts of the world he had yet to see, and he wanted to see them outside of the context of stealing. Life was so short, especially for a thief, and Remy wanted more than Louisiana would give him. There had to be other mutants out there, and Remy wanted to meet them. He wanted to make his own way and build his own legacy instead of melting into the large and sordid legacy of Jean-Luc. There were things Remy wanted to do, like kiss a woman while on a boat under the moon, see the Eiffel Tower for real, and drink with friends who weren't ready to kill him if he said something wrong.

The cigarette smouldered, and Remy took off his sunglasses, folding the glasses into the pocket of his trench coat. Red eyes burned at the road that he was supposed to go down. Remy really didn't want to. He wanted to go back to the Lazy Sax and play another round with Saul. Or swagger over to the Rusty Drum and knock back a few with the femmes.

Remy was so distracted by what he wanted that he almost didn't notice the hum in the air until his bo staff began to jerk in his hand. Surprise, Remy tightened his grip, the cigarette falling to the ground. Engaged in a tug-of-war with what seemed to be a living metal bo staff, Remy blinked when change from his pockets began to fly out as well.

"What in da hell is goin' on here?!" His question was met with a louder hum, and Remy let go of his bo staff to grab his cards as a man floated down from the sky. "Quite an entrance, monsieur, but you got an explanation for the visit?"

"I am here because you and I have a lot in common, Remy LeBeau," said the man. "I am Magneto, and I am a mutant like you, Gambit."

Remy would have been worried about the man knowing his name if half of New Orleans didn't know at least one of his two names, or a nickname that would have easily been identified to him. "Glad to know you've 'eard of me, monsieur. Now what is it you're after, so that we can both be on our merry way?"

"What I am looking for is not quite that easy, Gambit," said Magneto, lowering himself to the ground. Remy noticed when Magneto touched the ground, the humming lessened, though the sound still pervaded the surrounding sound of crickets. "I am sure that you know how mutants are treated in this world. Feared, grudgingly accepted, only accepted when hidden and restrained within the walls of our society. I want to change that, Gambit."

Remy raised an eyebrow, and wondered if he'd need another smoke before this ended. "That's nice, Magneto, but I'm not so sure how I play into your plans." He was cautious, not sure exactly where this was going.

"You are quite skilled, Gambit, in numerous aspects from what I hear," Magneto continued. "Yet you also know what it is like to be feared. I have heard what they call you, Le Diable Blanc, and I know what it is like to be considered something less than human. The look in the eyes of others, the remarks behind your back. You may be respected, but that respect is nothing but fear. I could use people like you, Remy, who know what it is like and would be willing to prevent the same thing from happening to others."

"I've got a family here, sorry monsieur." Remy shrugged, uneasy about the proposition. He didn't know this person, and he wasn't willing to drop everything to leave with someone he didn't know.

"Is it family if you are being used?" Magneto's comment stalled Remy, and Remy reached into his coat for a smoke as Magneto took off his helmet to reveal the older man beneath. "Remy, you have the chance to help other mutants such as yourself have the opportunity to be part of a world that does not use them. A world that respects them for the people they are, and gives them room to grow. Mutants are used by this world, Remy, as you have seen by your family. There are humans who care only for the powers mutants possess, and desire to use those powers to their own gain. Our kind, Remy, deserve to have a choice. Help me bring that choice to them."

Smoke rose into the air, and Remy mused over the words. Going with this man, Magneto, meant that he would be leaving what he knew. Hadn't he been wishing for that earlier? Irony seemed to be in the air tonight. Here was a mutant like himself, offering him a chance to do something significant with his life.

"What exactly would Remy be doin', monsieur?"

Magneto smiled a bit, his blue eyes slicing into the hot, muggy night. "You would be working with other mutants like yourself, Remy. I am afraid that our work will not always be in the United States, or even in the South, but you will have a home and the necessities are your disposal."

"But what does your team do, Magneto?"

"We liberate. We rescue mutants who are captured, and we stop organisations that threaten our kind. Our work is what brings hope to others through prevention of anti-mutant laws and devices, Remy. Someone has to do it."

Remy nodded, and blew smoke into the air, his brow furrowed. That didn't exactly answer the question, and Remy wondered exactly what illegal activities Magneto's team was involved in. Then again, it wasn't like the Thieves Guild was exactly legal. Ok, not at all legal. But then again, Magneto's team didn't have Jean-Luc.

It was a hard decision. "I need some time ta think."

"Unfortunately, I do not have much time, Remy, and need an answer soon," Magneto said slowly, floating his helmet up to himself. "Time does not stop for us, or others, unfortunately."

Sighing, Remy blew smoke into the night once more and hoped he had more cigarettes. He knew that leaving his associates would be a declaration of independence, and would be seen as leaving the family he had known for so longer. But what Magneto said rang true in his head. Family didn't use you, and that was all the Thieves Guild did. Would things change with the Guild? Remy wasn't sure. But he did know that going with Magneto meant things would change. It was a hard decision.

Magneto promised change, even if he didn't say it. And the chance to do something significant. To help others, to travel, to see others – it was all on Gambit's list. Granted, Magneto didn't mention finding a femme, but Remy knew he could do that in his own time. And it sounded like he would have his own time to choose to spend if he went with Magneto. Remy wasn't worried about being trapped by Magneto, as he knew he could get out of any situation he got into it. Besides the one he was in with Jean-Luc. But he had learned from that one, and Remy knew he wouldn't repeat his mistakes. Jean-Luc had offered him escape from his life on the streets. Magneto was offering him escape from the cage he was in.

"Hey, LeBeau, who's this?" The voice broke the concentration of Remy and caused Magneto to catch his helmet and spin around. Lucien stood on the path, hand to his gun that he carried blatantly on his belt. "He botherin' ya?"

Remy sighed. "Non, Lucien, non, da monsieur isn't."

"Good, because it's gettin' late, and we're all wonderin' where you are, mon ami. We need ta get goin' if we're goin' to beat Julien and his gang home," Lucien said tersely, eyeing Magneto with an unfriendly eye.

Remy held up his hands to ward off any anger Lucien may be directing at him. "All right, all right, mon ami, give Remy a minute."

Lucien scowled slightly. "We don't have a minute, Remy, we need ta go now. I thought Jean-Luc explained that. We're countin' on ya, Remy, and we need yer powers now, not later. Say au revoir to your friend and let's get goin'."

Remy's slender, gloved fingers curled around his bo staff, the other hand around his cigarette. "I see. Lucien?"

"Yeah?"

"Is that the only reason Remy's needed on these assignments, for his powers?"

A confused look passed over Lucien's face. "What?"

"You heard Remy."

"Well, yeah. Why else would you be on dis assignment?" Lucien shrugged, giving Remy a careful eye. "Yer powers are the most useful thing you offer to dis guild."

Remy's fingers crushed his cigarette, and he let the crumpled white stick fall to the ground. "I see. Well, Lucien, please tell Jean-Luc dat Remy won't be comin' home tonight. In fact, Remy isn't goin' on dis assignment either. He's gotten an offer from a different employer, and he likes the fact that he's bein' employed to do somethin' more fulfilling then pander to Jean-Luc's every win."

Distending his bo staff, Remy put the staff in his coat, and looked to Magneto. "You've got Gambit at your service, monsieur." Turning back to Lucien, Remy shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, mon ami. Hope the assignment goes well."

Lucien was dumbstruck, and it took him a minute to pull his jaw back up. "You're, you're…leavin', LeBeau? Why?!"

"I'm tired of bein' used for my powers, Lucien. I need to choose my own life for once," Remy said, sure of his decision for once.

"You have made a good decision, Remy. You will not regret it," Magneto assured, lifting his helmet back on with his powers and raising his hand to summon two metal orbs from the sky.

"What about Jean-Luc, Remy? And Claire? What about Belle Donna?" asked Lucien, still shocked. Remy wasn't sure if there was disappointment in Lucien's voice or not.

Remy held out his hands, unsure of what to say. "Remy's takin' a break from all this, Lucien. Just tell Jean-Luc and Claire and Belle that. Remy's just…escapin' this." Remy wasn't one to pour out his heart, especially not to Lucien who he knew mostly on a professional level.

Watching the metal orbs open up, thanks to Magneto's powers, Remy turned abruptly from Lucien, and noticed the still smoking cigarette on the ground. Putting it out with the toe of his boot, Remy glanced back at Lucien, who had put his hands back down by his side in defeat, and was just watching.

"Let's go, monsieur," Remy said to Magneto. The older mutant nodded, and with that closed the orbs. Remy hoped he was making the right choice, because it was too late to turn back now. Here he was, escaping, and pushing back any unease, Remy revelled in the fact that he was free from the vice-grip that Jean-Luc and the Thieves Guild had over him. Escape was très bon. Remy hoped that freedom was just as sweet.


End file.
